In the Freezing Winter
by questionsleftunanswered
Summary: Sherlock and John have an unexpected visitor. A/N: This is an older work of mine so please excuse the semblance of literary training wheels.


"Jooooooohhhnnnnn!" Sherlock called from the couch.

John opened his eyes. He was laying flat on top of his bed attempting to take a nap. He sat there for a few seconds, fighting with himself. I will not get up. I will not go and see what he wants. I will not-oh damn it. John rose from the bed and went downstairs, pulling on Sherlock's blue dressing down over his own jumper and pants.

It was mid-winter in London. Once a year the season came and the frozen streets also brought a bit of a freeze in crimes. The crime didn't stop entirely, of course, but it did drop a bit. No cases, no distractions, no distractions, and Sherlock was bored. Winter was always the worst season for them. The chill also caused the heating to go. Mrs. Hudson kept promising to get it patched up, but never did. For the past two winters it was always John who called someone to come and fix it. He would never repeat his mistake of letting Sherlock try and fix it. So their apartment was always freezing.

John paused on the stairs. He listened for any hint of hazardous experiments that may have been going on. Ears filled with silence, he walked through the door. Sherlock was curled in a tight ball on the couch. He had what appeared to be three jumpers on under his great coat, one of which John knew was probably his. The table beside him was littered with a dozen half empty tea cups and five stolen cold case files. Pulling the too long blue dressing gown tighter about himself and pulling up the sleeves slightly, John went and occupied the one third of the couch that wasn't already covered in consulting detective.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" John asked after a minute.

"Can I have tea, John?" Sherlock kept his face buried in the vertex of the couch and the arm of the couch. His voice was muffled and John had to lean over a bit to hear him properly.

"You have tons of tea right here." John said exasperated.

"But it's not warm Joooohnnnn. I want warm tea! You can't have tea that isn't warm! It's winter John, in case that slipped your notice. And winter demands warm tea. Why are you so stupid John?" Sherlock whined. Still curled in a ball, he resembled an oversized child who was denied sweets.

"I can't keep making you tea to waste. I do pay for that you know." John rested his hand on Sherlock's calf, tracing small circles to try and calm him down. "Why don't we go out for dinner tonight? Hm? Where do you want to go? I'll take you to the finest place in London." At this point John would promise Sherlock anything to make him stop. He had been like this for a week already.

"I don't want a fancy dinner." Sherlock protested.

"What do you want?"

"Tea."

John stood and started gathering all the used teacups. He went to the kitchen and began to patiently wash them in the sink. Honestly, he thought, I should get an award for this.

"John." Said a much more alert sounding Sherlock.

"Yes, what is it now?" John continued washing.

"There's someone at the door. He's here to see you," Sherlock paused then continued, "And he's a very interesting fellow. My age, but not nearly as intelligent; he plays rugby, bar league. Hmmm…He doesn't drink, but is on the patch. And, oh this is very interesting; he has had his heart broken. Not a long relationship, but long enough."

John had long since stopped washing the cups. Standing there, listening to Sherlock pull this man apart, was horrible.

John stepped out of the kitchen and into view. His guess was right. Matthew was here.

Matthew and John had been together all through uni. They played rugby together, they had classes together, they had been together. That had ended when John went to Afghanistan. Why was he back now? John had been in the military for a while, and he had already been back in London for two years. What made Matthew come find him now? Of course, John had expected Matthew to wait for him. That didn't happen. John returned to London and Stamford and told him about Matthew's wedding; all about his gorgeous bride and her amazing, wealthy family. John didn't fit into the picture.  
But here he was. Matthew looked just as John remembered him. He has messy brown that fell barely past his ears and looked like it had never known a comb. He was an inch taller than John, still much shorter than Sherlock. Matthew wore a pair of plain, dark denim trousers and a marble grey v-neck. He had a solid black hoodie on with a white zipper. Matthew always did love the cold. It was odd seeing him after all this time.

John's mind was going faster than a jet and all it produced was, "You."

Matthew seemed a bit underwhelmed by John's reaction. "Yes, me."

John turned to Sherlock, "This is Matthew my ex." Turning back to Matthew he continued, "Did you…How did you find me?" John asked, keeping his voice nonchalant.

"Looked you up. Not hard to find, really. Your address is on the blog." Matthew stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"Why?"

"I dunno. Guess I wanted to see you again. That's all."

"See me how?"

"Not sure. I just…I missed you."

"But you're married."

"Not anymore. Divorce went through about a month ago. That's when I started looking for you, asking around and all."  
Matthew looked down at his feet.

Sherlock's bright eyes were still studying him. John could almost feel Sherlock's concentration.

"John he's lying." Sherlock's voice was barely concealing its triumphant tone.

"Sherlock, Matthew wouldn't-" John started to protest before he let his voice die. He realized that he barely knew this man that stood before him. His Matthew was young. He had girls all over him, but that Matthew had chosen John. This man before him was divorced, he had a new life. John had no idea who he was. John started again, "What is he lying about Sherlock?"

"He isn't divorced, and he just looked you up today. He was at the Yard first." Sherlock's voice was harsh, criticizing. John though it was also a bit defensive. It was also truthful. Sherlock wouldn't lie to him. The most he ever did was leave out important information, but always for a case, never personal matters.

Turning to Matthew, John said accusingly, "Why did you lie?"

"But-How-He doesn't know anything!" Matthew sputtered.

"He knows a hell of a lot more than you do!" John slightly raised his voice, himself defensive now, "Did you know I actually was naive enough to think you'd wait for me? I spent hundreds of nights in Afghanistan thinking about you. I thought you were going to be here when I came back. You said you loved me and I believed you. No! I come home and Stamford tells me all about your wedding and how bloody amazing you life turned out to be. Congratulations on having your own practice. So I gave up on you. You can't come back here at random and then have the gall to fucking lie to me." John was breathing heavily. He stood, daring Matthew to defy him.

Sherlock was shocked. It was rare that John cussed. Somehow, seeing him like this set fire to Sherlock. He wanted. Sherlock wasn't sure exactly what this feeling was, but it was an ache. So unusual, he thought, to need something. He stood still. His eyes flicked between Matthew and John before settling on a point just above John's left shoulder.

Matthew was flabbergasted. He had come here wanting to see John. No, don't lie to yourself, he though, you came back because you wanted him on the side. Matthew wasn't going to leave his wife. She was having their second kid. No, he just wanted John. All of a sudden Matthew craved the feel of him. It was a whim, a silly idea he had one winter's morning. He never expected to crash in on John and this Sherlock who was apparently his new boyfriend.

"Well?" John snapped, cutting off Matthew's thoughts.

"Well what?" Matthew said, meeting John's eyes.

"Why are you really here?"

And Matthew caved. He told John the real reason for finding him today. "But I do still love you." He finished.  
John turned his back and went to sit on his one third of the couch.

Sherlock was suddenly murderous. How dare Matthew do that to John, my John. Matthew doesn't belong here. I will make him leave. He thought. Sherlock stepped forward, blocking John from Matthew's view.

Pressing one hand against Matthew's shoulder, right on the pressure point, Sherlock said, "Leave. Now."

And leave Matthew did.

It was five days after this encounter. Sherlock's and John's roles had been reversed. John was moping around the freezing flat and Sherlock was trying to coax him into doing something. John wasn't nearly as difficult as Sherlock was. It was still driving Sherlock mad though. Twice already he had nearly called Mycroft to ask for help.  
John just laid, desolate, on his bed. Sherlock didn't understand what was so upsetting. John and Matthew had been in  
love and now they weren't. It was that simple. So why was there such a reaction?

Sherlock was also struggling with himself. Since that day, Sherlock saw John differently. He was more possessive, and he still wanted. Sherlock craved John as more than company. This was interesting, something new. As a school boy he had felt similar urges, but was always able to suppress them. Nothing mattered except the work. This feeling was never as strong as it was with John.

In between bringing John food, studying the remaining two cases, and performing experiments, Sherlock lay alone in his own room. His mind wandered to unknown territories. He imagined what it would be like to have John in bed with him. What it would feel like to have his hands against John's bare skin. Sherlock wanted to make John feel so good. He wanted to be buried deep in John, thrusting with every muscle in his body, hitting his prostate every time, and bringing John to climax. He wanted to taste John's release and wanted John to taste his. It was tantalizing, the thought of John's perfect mouth wrapped around his cock; taking Sherlock all the way down and swallowing around him.  
Sherlock, alone in his own room, came every night for the past five days to the thought of having sex with John. Of course, it was impossible, he thought, how could John ever look at him the way he first looked at Matthew. He should let go of such frivolous notions now.

On the sixth day, John was awake and downstairs making tea before Sherlock had even left his room.

"Feeling better, John?" Sherlock asked. He couldn't help but let his eyes wander along John's body. He was wearing plain navy cotton pants and a white t-shirt under his own grey dressing gown.

"Yes. Figure it's pointless moping around so much. Bugger him." John poured two mugs of tea and handed one to Sherlock.

Sherlock took a sip and gave a small smile, it was perfect, per usual.

"I'm sorry he was so horrible, John." Sherlock offered, unsure what to say.

"It's my own fault. I believed in love." John walked past him to take a seat on the couch.  
Sherlock followed close behind; sitting down on the couch facing John and tucking his feet under the doctor's thighs.  
They sat comfortably sipping their tea in silence. The sounds of London still raged outside; horns, loud conversations, the occasional rumble of a bus. John kept glancing outside to admire the snow that lay on the ground. Not the dirty show that had been touched by London's pollution, he liked the fine white snow that had escaped the city's taint.

"So, you don't love him, correct?" Sherlock asked tentatively.

Strange, John thought, Sherlock is never nervous.

"No, I don't love him." John answered.

"Do you think that…you could love me?" Sherlock still sounded uncertain. He was glad John couldn't tell how very nervous he actually was.

"I don't know what you mean. You're an excellent mate and flatmate." John was trying to work out where Sherlock was going with this.

Sherlock set his tea on the table and then took John's and set it down too, the striped mugs side by side.

Then Sherlock was kissing him. It was hard, insistent. John didn't even think, he started kissing Sherlock back. It was messy, all teeth and tongue. John tasted exactly how Sherlock imagined. He tasted of tea and toothpaste and John.  
John fisted his hands in Sherlock's hair, pulling him closer to deepen their kiss. It was sudden and shocking and it was perfect. They moved and John was on top of Sherlock on the couch. Sherlock's hands on John's hips and John grinding against Sherlock. They were both needy, now.

John pulled back and looked at Sherlock, "What are we doing?"

"We're kissing marvelously on the couch." Came Sherlock's easy reply. He leaned up and kissed John again. Slower this time, trying to express what words couldn't.

"Your room or mine?" John said breathlessly between kisses.

"Mine, it's closer."

They both stood, never breaking their kiss; not moving towards the room at all. Finally Sherlock pulled back, smirked evilly at John, and darted away towards his bedroom. John smiled, and followed a bit slower.

When he reached Sherlock's room, the door was cracked open. He pushed it open fully and stepped inside, closing it behind him.

Sherlock lay on the bed wearing nothing except his silk pants. John walked over, shedding the dressing gown and t-shirt as he did so. He crawled onto the bed on top of Sherlock and ducked his head for another kiss. Instantly long fingers pushed into his hair and pulled him tighter.

John reached between their bodies to palm Sherlock's half hard cock. He pulled away and slowly moved down Sherlock's body; pausing to worship each nipple with his mouth and dip his tongue into Sherlock's navel.

Finally his breath was hot against Sherlock's hip. John slowly pulled Sherlock's pants out and then down, freeing his length. Sherlock's eyes never left the gorgeous sight before him. It was better than all those night's imagining it alone.

John blew gently on the head of Sherlock's cock before sucking the head into his mouth. Sherlock let out a groan and bit his lip. John swirled his tongue around the tip before taking him in another inch. Sherlock was fully hard now and John loved that he was the cause.

"Oh fuck yes, there, god yes John" Sherlock kept muttering encouragements. His speech slured and ragged as John continued sucking him.

Then suddenly John released him. Sherlock groaned from the loss of contact. He opened his eyes to look down, unaware that he had closed them. John was taking off his pants, his own erection red and straining for friction.

"Where's the lube, Sherlock?" John asked, reaching over to rummage through the bedside table drawer. Withdrawing it, John dropped a generous amount into the palm of his hand. "Turn over for me." He commanded.

Sherlock was more than eager to comply, turning over quickly and offering his arse. "I'm clean by the way." Sherlock said. He was a bit surprised John hadn't already asked, being a doctor and all.

"I know." Was his only reply.

John spread the lube into the crease of Sherlock's cheeks, brushing his hand against Sherlock's balls as he did so. Then, ever so slowly, he pushed one finger inside Sherlock. Sherlock gasped at the intrusion, but quickly began moaning in please as John stretched him open. John soon added a second and third finger. He withdrew them and Sherlock once again groaned at the loss of contact.

Then John spread more lube along his own erection and slid and inch into Sherlock.

"Oh fuck, you're so tight" John resisted entire sheathing himself into the pliant body.

Moving slowly, John sunk deeper into Sherlock; each movement elicited an obscene moan from the other man. Soon John was thrusting in and out, careful to his Sherlock's prostate every time.

"Oh god, yes. Right there, John. Please." Sherlock reached down to pull at his own erection in time with John's thrusts.

Both of their movements became more erratic. John gripped Sherlock's hips and thrust deep and hard into Sherlock. He brought down his hand against the perfect white mound of Sherlock's arse, leaving a stinging red handprint in his wake.

"Oh, hit me again." Sherlock whimpered, so close to the edge.

John brought his other hand down on the opposite cheek. "I know. I know you want me to hit you." John was still thrusting into Sherlock. He leaned down and bit down on Sherlock's pale shoulder, also leaving an angry red mark.

"Oh yes, please. Mark me. Make me yours." Sherlock was very close to begging.

So John marked the other shoulder too. He was so close to coming. He could feel that Sherlock was too.

"I'm going to come into your tight little arse hole."

"Yes, fill me."

Sherlock was still pulling on his cock. Then his mind exploded and he was coming harder than he ever had. His hand and his sheets were covered in the white ropes of his come.

As Sherlock came, his walls clenched John's cock and pushed him over the edge. John was filling Sherlock, coming buried deep inside.

Then they both collapsed on the bed. John stayed inside Sherlock until Sherlock's body forced him out. Then he got up and got a tea towel to clean up. Afterwards, they curled against each other in Sherlock's bed. John tucked his head into the curve of Sherlock's neck and felt Sherlock arms encircle him.

Sherlock kissed the top of John's head and smelled the faint scent of his shampoo. He rest his cheek against the dirty blonde hair.

"Sherlock?" John spoke to the curve of Sherlock's neck.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock replied. John could feel as well as hear Sherlock talking.

"Do you love me?" John was almost afraid to ask. He was sure Sherlock could feel his heart hammering in his chest.

"Yes, I do." Was Sherlock's simple reply.

John smiled to himself, "I love you too."

Even though it was still midday and there were cases to study and heating to fix, they lay there for hours. Neither Sherlock nor John was cold anymore; it was quite warm together under the comforter and sheets.


End file.
